


Oddsea

by rinwins



Series: Nassau Repertory Theater [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Everyone Is Alive, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinwins/pseuds/rinwins
Summary: Facing yet another short budget, James Flint, head of Nassau Repertory Theater, breaks with the company's strict classical tradition and takes on a new script. The premiere ofOddseacomes with the prestigious Urca Grant, as well as the grant's funding- unfortunately, it also comes with its playwright, John Silver.Featuring sand on stage, passive-aggressive advance reviews, extreme casting, polyam maneuvering, breakfast of indeterminate quality, a terrible minivan, strong opinions about Shakespeare, broken elevators, beach retreats, all-nighters, avant garde performance art, and far too much coffee. Buckle up, folks, this is going to be a long one.





	1. Entr'acte

ENTR'ACTE

-

“Absolutely not,” says Flint, leaning back in the folding chair as if it’s a throne. “I am not doing another fucking Shakespeare.”

Eleanor crosses her arms. “You are if you want to pay anyone next season,” she says, unfazed. “Macbeth puts asses in seats-” she ignores it as three of the other four people present wince- “and God knows your Sophocles didn’t.”

“The critical reviews-”

“Don’t mean shit to a half-full house,” says Eleanor. She’s used to this. They all are, the governing board- such as it is- of Nassau Repertory Theater. As executive producer it’s usually her who runs up against Flint’s artistic moods, but today nobody else wants to throw in with him- not Gates, the technical director, who takes his side as often as not; not Billy Manderly, stage manager, who’s currently absorbed in a twenty-four-ounce coffee; and certainly not Max, who never bothers arguing unless it’s about PR.

“We might as well hang a sign out front saying WE’RE DESPERATE,” Flint insists. “It is _ beneath us _.”

James Flint- artistic director, producer, actor, scene designer when no one can stop him, transportation when there’s no better option- the driving force behind Nassau Rep, and, in Eleanor’s opinion, the eternal pain in its ass.

“We’re a classical company,” Billy mutters into his coffee. “You can’t _ refuse _ to do Shakespeare.”

“I can and I will. If you think-”

“What’s your alternative?” says Eleanor, before Flint can start one of his speeches.

“What?”

“What do you propose we put on instead,” she says, coolly. “Do you have an alternative in mind?”

Flint _ stares _ at her. It’s the icy-hard stare he does when he’s thinking very fast behind it. Eleanor’s sure he’s about to say something both completely outrageous and somehow convincing-

“I do,” says Max. “John Silver.”

_ Everyone _ stares at her. Especially Flint, who looks like his train of thought’s just hit a penny on the rail. 

“_ Who _,” he says.

“This year’s Urca Grant recipient,” Max replies, completely calm. “Mr. Silver submitted a particulary compelling adaption of-”

Flint is already leaning forward. “_ No _ ,” he says. “We are a _ classical _ company-”

“Then do the fucking Shakespeare,” Eleanor snaps.

Gates ignores both of them, still watching Max. “You can get in touch with Silver?”

“I have,” she says. “Miranda Hamilton introduced him to me at the awards gala. I have his script already.”

Flint shakes his head. “You’re on network terms with Miranda Hamilton,” he repeats, his brow furrowed.

“And you are not?”

“And she just- handed you some MFA prodigy with a stack of grant money in his pocket?”

“I believe Mr. Silver’s degree is still in progress,” says Max, smiling archly, “but essentially, yes.”

They all look at her. Then they all look at Flint.

“I will _ read _ it,” he says, at last. 

There's a collective exhale. "Right, then," says Gates, getting up "if that's settled. Billy, we need to check those set cues with de Groot-"

The meeting adjourns.

-

Eleanor pulls Max aside into her office- she actually _ has _ an office, one that isn't also being used for storage, through bribes and strategic stakeouts and sheer damn stubbornness- once everyone else is out of earshot.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," she says.

What she means is, ‘You know season submissions are supposed to go to me or to Flint, and I know you know that, but you also know Flint won’t read it if it wasn’t his idea and he _ definitely _ won’t take it from me, and you know that _ I _ know that, so we’re left with you doing these end runs around me, and we’re both going to pretend they don’t happen and wish they weren’t necessary.’

But she doesn’t have to say that, because Max knows what she means.

“Mm,” says Max. Not an apology, just an acknowledgement.

“The Urca Grant,” Eleanor says, mostly to herself, contemplative. “Have _ you _ read it- Silver’s script?”

Max looks at her. There’s a lot they don’t have to say out loud these days.

“Flint will take it,” she says. “Once he reads it, he’ll agree.”

-

It’s actually a few days and one moderate set crisis later when Flint opens the office door without knocking.

“Fine,” he says, tossing a dog-eared and bookmarked script onto the table that serves as Eleanor’s desk. “But I’m not directing it.”

“Of course you’re not,” says Eleanor, without looking up from her laptop, “Max is.”

Flint gives her a Look. “_ Max _ is directing?” 

He does not say, ‘Max never directs, what are you plotting now,’ and Eleanor gives him a Look back and does not say, ‘You’re going to kick and Max isn’t going to take any of your shit, do you want to argue?’

“Max is directing,” says Flint, with resignation and only the slightest despair. “Fine. Tell the grant committee we’re taking it.”

“I wrote to them yesterday,” Eleanor says. “You’re welcome and get out of my office.”

-

The day the press release goes out, Thomas calls. That’s fine, because Flint knows he must have been in on it.

“You set me up,” he says when he picks up.

“Congratulations,” says Thomas, unfazed. Flint can hear him smiling. “And of course we did, Nassau’s exactly the right company for that script. You won’t let the concept get away from you-”

“That’s not what I meant, you bastard,” says Flint, without any rancor at all. “It was clever,” he says, “going through Max.”

“Miranda’s idea,” Thomas admits. “We would have sent the script directly to you, but-”

“Thomas-”

“-if you still don’t want anyone to know-”

“_ Thomas _,” says Flint. “You know why.”

“I do,” says Thomas. 

“Thank you,” Flint says eventually. “For the script. I can do something with it.”

“I know you will.”

“Listen, the holidays are booked here, but we’re dark the second week of January-”

“We’ll be in Asheville then,” Thomas says. “Will you come up?”

“Yeah, should be a nice drive,” says Flint. He doesn’t have to see Thomas suppressing an eye-roll to know he’s doing it. No one but Flint can handle Flint’s beat-up old van. Somewhere on the other end, he hears another line start to ring.

“Oh dear, that’s my editor. Again. I’d better take it. Call you back tonight?”

“Not too late, I’ve got a table read in the morning.”

“Absolutely. Love you.”

Flint, as always, looks around him, although there’s no one else in the room. “And you,” he says.


	2. Casting Call / Prologue 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ranger Players encounter a setback.

CASTING CALL / PROLOGUE I

-

Charles Vane fixes his assistant-director-slash-costar-slash-designer with a stony stare. “What the hell happened,” he says.

“Look,” says Jack, “I did  _ warn _ you not to leave me in charge for a week. That said, I’m satisfied with my decisions, and I won’t apologize.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you  _ what happened _ .”

Jack sighs. “All right,” he says, “right after you left, it came out that Hammund and… some of the others… were involved in, shall we say, a targeted harassment campaign directed at Nassau Rep’s marketing director. Some emails were leaked that-”

“Leaked?” Vane says, suspicious. “By who?”

Jack casts the briefest of glances over at Anne, who isn’t even pretending not to listen in. “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “There were emails, there were a lot of them, they were very damning. So I fired them.”

“You fired them.”

“Mmhm.”

“How many?”

“Counting Hammund- eight. I told you not to go on that retreat,” Jack adds, with a shrug.

“Still got the emails,” says Anne, “if you want proof. Would’ve turned ‘em over to the fucking cops if they weren’t useless.”

Very slowly, Vane shuts his eyes. “So Lear is sunk,” he says. 

“Ah. Maybe not,” says Jack. “I’ve been thinking about that. We’d need to re-cut the script, but- have you heard of something called extreme casting?”


	3. Enter Silver, Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver arrives at Nassau Rep. Flint is less than enthusiastic about this.

ENTER SILVER, LEFT

-

Flint braces his hands on the cork top of the cutting table. "What do you mean, he's  _ here? _ "

"Jesus, James, that's how grants work." Gates is unfazed, but then again, he does have the table between Flint and him. "Just because the playwrights you usually deal with have been dead for centuries-"

"And, what, you were going to hide him in a broom closet? Was  _ anyone _ going to tell me about this?"

"Not when everyone knew you were going to have a fit like-"

"Hey," Anne interrupts, leaning around the open door, "other people use this green room, you two want to argue somewhere else?"

" _ No _ ," they both say, turning simultaneously.

She gives them both her best 'it's-your-funeral' look. "Alright," she says skeptically, and swings out of view again.

"You know what your problem is," says Gates, "you just don't want to share your project."

"You're damn right I don't want to share," Flint practically growls. "This script is going to be difficult enough without-"

"It's  _ his play _ -"

"Not anymore!" Flint slaps one hand on the table. "That's how  _ plays _ work. He writes it, it's his script; I stage it, it's my play. And I can stage it a lot better without working around some- green kid, who thinks because he can write and has half a degree he knows-"

And he trails off, because Gates has taken on a strange look. 

"What?" he says. 

"Three," says a voice from the door.

Flint turns around.

"It's actually three halves," says the man standing there, "of three different degrees. So, in theory, I should know quite a lot." He holds out a hand. "Hi. John Silver."

Silver doesn't look like a kid, green or otherwise. Nor does he particularly look like a grant-winning playwright. He's leaning casually on the door frame, wearing an awful floral print shirt and jeans with a hole in the knee, with a scruffy goatee and a mop of dark curls, and his smile is worryingly disarming. Flint distrusts him immediately.

He hasn't moved forward, but he is still holding his hand out. Flint rakes his hair back off of his forehead. Then, with no other option presenting itself, he goes over and takes it.

"James Flint," he says. He nods to the side. "Hal Gates, our TD. Welcome to Nassau Rep."

"Excited to be here," says Silver. He does not let go of Flint's hand. 

"Well," Gates says, clearing his throat, "you two are going to have a lot to discuss, so if you'll excuse me-"

And he leaves, the heartless bastard. Flint makes a mental note to get him back later. At least Silver has to let go in order to move out of the doorway.

Oh, well, he's in it now. "I should apologize," Flint says. "What you overheard was unprofessional, and it shouldn't have happened. From now on, if I have anything to say about you, I'll say it to your face."

He sees that one land. But Silver's smile doesn't waver. "I've heard your critiques can be devastating," he says. "I'll look forward to it."

"What are the other two?"

"What?"

"The other two half-degrees. What are they in?"

"Forensic psychology and culinary science," says Silver, without missing a beat.

Flint looks at him coolly. It's the most obvious, barefaced bullshit, but Silver's deadpan is flawless. The round, reluctant as he is to admit it, seems to be Silver's.

"Come on," he says, with a shrug, "I'll show you around. Who else have you met?"


	4. Advance Review

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nassau Rep crew reads an article, and Silver gets some company backstory.

ADVANCE REVIEW

-

** _Oddsea_ ** ** Finds Strange Harbor**

Woodes Rogers, contributor

  
  


Skipping the usual locales in New York, Washington, or Chicago, this year’s Urca Grant-winning script will head to Nassau Repertory Theater in Jacksonville, Florida, for its premiere production.

Every two years, the Urca Grant is awarded to an emerging playwright. This year the honoree, MFA candidate John Silver, is an especially fresh face-  _ Oddsea _ is his first published play, and it will be his first full-length script to be produced.

An adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey,  _ Oddsea _ is a surreal tale of a strange traveler- a vagrant known only as ‘U’- as he spins stories of his past, in an effort to win over the residents of a seaside town, and perhaps to convince them he was once one of their own. The company’s head, James Flint, is set to take on the role of U, while the ensemble- who act as both the town’s inhabitants and the characters of U’s tales- will be led by avant-garde performer Charles Vane, of Jacksonville’s Ranger Players. 

Perhaps fittingly, this production will be a departure in several other ways. Nassau Repertory, known for uncompromising production values, has staged only a few modern scripts, and this will be the company’s first premiere. The production will also be Max Dupere’s debut as a stage director, stepping away temporarily from her usual role as director of marketing. And, unlike the company’s established practice of performing several plays in repertory rotation,  _ Oddsea _ will run alone.

With this host of unusual players and practices, audiences can expect only one thing- a most unexpected result.

_ Oddsea _ will run in single showing, May 7 through July 12. For advance ticket details, contact the Nassau Repertory Theater box office.

-

“Did you see the release?”

“Ugh, Rogers,” says Gates, relatively mildly, considering.

Billy tosses the paper down onto a seat. “Wish Hamilton had got to this one first. It beats me how that idiot always scoops him.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong,” says Silver, who’s reading the article on his phone. “Apart from this Rogers not having interviewed me, I had some very quotable phrases ready to use.”

“You’re not used to him yet,” says Gates. “He’ll never come right out and criticize, it’s always between the lines. That condescending line about ‘the usual locales’, for example.”

“He hates us,” Billy says flatly. “Just because Eleanor dumped him-”

“ _ Really _ ,” Silver says, leaning forward.

Gates rolls his eyes. “That’s just gossip.”

“I’m a writer,” says Silver, “gossip is my lifeblood. Please, spare no detail.”

“Who are we gossiping about?” Jack walks through with an armful of cloth, headed for the green-room-slash-costume-shop, with Vane behind him carrying several more bags.

“Woodes Rogers, apparently.”

“Ugh,  _ him _ ,” says Jack. “Ugh, that article- did you read what he said about you, Charles? He called you  _ avant-garde _ .” 

“Well, that’s not wrong,” Vane says with a shrug.

Jack frowns. “Coming from Rogers, it’s an insult. He was always jealous of you-”

“Wait, wait,” says Silver, “I can’t keep up here, someone start at the beginning.”

“It’s pretty simple,” Jack says. “Your esteemed producer once dated our Chaz here, they broke up over artistic differences, then she got together with Rogers, but he couldn’t stop tearing us up in his reviews. Call it jealousy, call it bias, call it utter lack of professionalism, whichever way, Eleanor broke up with him over-”

“I broke up with Woodes Rogers,” says Eleanor, behind all of them, “because he’s an ass.”

Gates and Billy are used to her. Everyone else turns around, surprised. 

“Well,” she says, “I’m not paying you to discuss my exes. Aren’t you supposed to be having a design meeting?”


	5. Alarums Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver pokes his nose in, Gates and Jack actually agree on something, and, miraculously, no one gets killed.

ALARUMS WITHIN

-

Billy comes into the scene shop looking even more harried than usual. “Please tell me,” he says, “you did not corral Silver into painting sets.”

“I did not,” replies de Groot, with the particular dignity only someone holding a power screwdriver can wield. “He volunteered. He seems to know what he’s doing, and it’s saving me some time.”

“If you say so.” Billy shrugs and sets down his full-to-bursting ring binder. “I have the lighting plot, will you double check this to make sure nothing’s in the way of your changes-”

About fifteen minutes later, Silver wanders back into the shop. “The aisles and the floor around the basin are done,” he says. He has a roller on a long handle, a few smudges of sand-colored paint on his jeans, and one on his forehead. The roller he detaches and deposits in the big sink. The smudges, he doesn’t seem to care about. “I can start the texture for the flats if we get some fabric from the scrap-”

“ _ No _ ,” Billy and de Groot both say.

Silver narrows his eyes. “We're changing the design?”

“It isn’t that,” says de Groot, and he and Billy exchange a look.

Billy sighs. “Flint was here all night getting all the promo copy done. Deadline for the printer was this morning. He’s crashed on the green room sofa. We usually wait until lunch to send some coffee in.”

"Usually," Silver repeats. “He does this often?"

“Often enough. Just don't go in there, he’s hell if you wake him up too early."

Silver gives them both a long, unreadable stare. "You're all mad," he says, "you do know that?" He wipes the rest of the paint off of his hands and onto his jeans, and, with great deliberation, walks out of the shop.

Billy and de Groot split another look between them. "Well, it's too late for him to back out now," de Groot says philosophically.

"I'll go get the coffee," says Billy.

-

It's not good when there's shouting from the back of house, but it's truly worrying when there  _ isn't _ . Eleanor goes to investigate.

She finds Gates and Jack Rackham standing outside of the green room, talking in urgent whispers and occasionally casting tense glances at the closed door. If those two agree on something, then something is wrong.

"What's happening," she says.

"Silver," says Gates. "He went in."

"Didn't anyone  _ warn _ him?"

"Someone must have. He had two coffees-"

"We tried to stop him," Jack says. "He wouldn't hear it-"

"-and a takeout bag," Gates continues over him. "He wasn't  _ unarmed _ . But nobody would send him of all people to-"

"Flint's going to kill him," says Jack. "We're going to be the theater that killed the Urca Grant recipient."

"We?" Eleanor says. "Have the Rangers disbanded?" She holds up a hand before Jack can say something else. "Shh. Listen."

They listen. It's quiet.

"It doesn't sound like anyone's being killed," says Eleanor. "Let's all back away quietly and maybe we'll be lucky."

On the way out they meet Billy, coming in with the largest coffee available. "What happened?" he says immediately. 

"No need for that," says Gates, gesturing at the cup. "Silver took care of it."

" _ Silver _ took care of- ?" Billy looks speculatively at the coffee, and then takes a sip of it himself. "And he said we were mad."

-

“There’s paint on your face,” says Flint.

“It’s a statement.”

“Really. What about?”

“I don’t know yet,” Silver admits. “Give me two minutes and I’ll have something suitably artful about- oh, the intent of presentation and the subjective nature of perception?”

Flint gives a snort that might, charitably, be considered laughter. “Forget the MFA, you should be lecturing.”

Silver, for once, says nothing. Although to be fair, he has a mouth full of breakfast burrito.

He’s sitting on the floor, with his back against the wardrobe closets and his legs stretched out across the narrow aisle. Just opposite, on the beat-up mauve sofa, Flint is still taking up most of the space- although at least he’s conscious and mostly sitting up. Between them, laid out like a very low-budget picnic, are several foil-wrapped sandwiches, a box of assorted donuts, and one of the large coffees.

Flint takes a long sip from the other one. He’s finished half of it already.

“I volunteered for set painting duty,” Silver says. “I think I’ve got a knack for it. Maybe I’ll give up playwriting and join the stage crew, what do you think?”

“You didn’t have to do that,” says Flint, choosing to ignore the second part completely. It’s turning out to be a good strategy where Silver is concerned.

“And you didn’t have to pull an all-nighter doing marketing, and yet, here we are.”

“You know Max is busy-”

“ _ You’re _ busy.”

“Everyone’s busy,” Flint says vaguely, into the depths of his coffee.

“I’m not,” says Silver.

Flint looks up. His gaze is, all of a sudden, considerably more focused. 

A lot of people would flinch under that gaze. Silver does not. "We're done with table work," he says levelly. "I'm not making any more revisions. The lighting and set designs are finished and Jack won't let anyone near the costumes. I have nothing to  _ do _ ."

"So you're getting underfoot instead," says Flint. 

Silver shrugs. "I don't like to be bored." He takes a donut, considers, and then slides the box toward Flint.

"So," Flint says, "you want us to put you to work?"

"Am I going to be sorry I said anything?"

"Yeah," says Flint, picking up the rest of the donuts for himself.


	6. Quick Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Anne do some backstage work.

QUICK CHANGE

-

In a corner of the shop out of the way, Jack has an old navy fatigue jacket and is dipping it painstakingly into a bucket of diluted bleach.

“Distressing?” Anne says, hauling over a five-gallon of paint to sit on.

“No, not especially,” says Jack, still concentrating. “In fact I find it somewhat meditative.”

“ _ Ugh _ ,” says Anne. “Awful.”

“I regret nothing.”

She watches in silence for a minute or so, while Jack carefully lowers the hem of the jacket another inch into the bleach solution.

“Max asked me out to dinner,” she says, apropos of nothing. “You know. As a date.”

“Oh  _ really _ ,” says Jack. “Well, you know I don’t mind.”

“Mmh. I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to?”

“No, that’s not it, it’s- me. At  _ dinner _ . Can you see it?”

Jack does a ‘well-you-got-me-there’ face but says nothing.

“She’s classy,” Anne says. “I can’t even play classy. I like her, she’s-” she lets out a very expressive breath- “but we got nothing in common. I don’t see why she likes  _ me _ .”

“You’re very different people,” says Jack. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Huh,” says Anne.

Another minute goes by.

“It scares me,” she admits. “People liking me.”

“I know,” says Jack.

Anne peers at him. “I never told you that,” she says.

“No, you didn’t. But I know.”

“I told her I’d think about it.”

“Whatever you decide,” Jack says, “I’m behind you.”

“Yeah,” says Anne. "I know."

He lifts the fabric out and inspects it. “Another round, do you think?”

“Fuck should I know, I’m not a designer.”

Jack nods. “Another round.”


	7. Exeunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint miscalculates.

EXEUNT

-

Flint goes through the back of house turning off all the lights. He's usually the last one out, but tonight he finds Silver sprawled out across three seats in the theater, half-dozing over several open books and a beat up spiral notebook.

"Jesus, you're still here?" he says. "Come on, I'll give you a lift. I'm locking up."

Silver shakes himself awake. "I can sleep on the sofa."

"You absolutely cannot," says Flint, "that sofa is mine."

"Ah. And let no man profane that hallowed throne. Hang on." He unsprawls and, gradually, starts to pack up.

Flint leaves the ghost light on backstage and they go out through the shop door, locking it behind them. Silver yawns as they amble toward the back parking. The air is humid as usual, with a breeze blowing up that smells like rain.

Flint's van is nicknamed the Walrus. It was Gates that coined it, claiming it steered like one. Its green paint is chipped, its bumpers are both dented, and one side mirror is held on with careful application of duct tape, and Flint cherishes it. No one else trusts the old machine, but it is, to all appearances, indestructible.

He opens the passenger side door first. "My hero," says Silver, as he climbs in.

Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t say much else as they drive, except occasionally to give Flint a direction. Silver’s building is a bit out of the way- occasionally visiting artists stay in the apartments there, Flint knows it exists, but he’s never actually  _ been _ to the place before.

The Walrus comes to a surprisingly neat stop outside. Silver leans on the passenger side door until it opens, slings his backpack on backwards so it’s across his front instead, and climbs stiffly out of the van.

Flint hesitates, watching him walk to the door, and then cuts the engine. This is not technically a parking zone, but too bad. Something is off.

He gets out and goes after Silver into the building’s foyer. There’s a row of mailboxes, several packages sitting haphazardly on the floor, an elevator with a paper sign taped to the door, a flight of vinyl-tread stairs, and Silver, sitting on those stairs, levering himself slowly up, backwards, step by step.

“What are you doing,” says Flint.

Silver looks up. His face so rarely betrays anything. “Elevator’s broken,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

Flint cannot make heads or tails of this. “Is this some kind of exercise, or-” 

Abruptly, the words stop coming out. He looks at Silver’s grip on the edge of the step, the way he carefully holds his left foot in the air, his jeans with the perpetual hole in the right knee.

“Show me your leg,” he says.

“Listen, as flattered as I am, and far be it from me to judge anyone’s taste, I don’t think the stairwell is the place-”

“ _ Oh God _ , shut up,” says Flint, "it's a false leg, isn't it?"

"The word most people prefer," Silver says, with cold hauteur, "is prosthetic."

Flint stares at him. It is much too late at night for this. 

"Get back in the car," he says, at last, quiet.

" _ What? _ "

"My place is on the ground floor. If you give me your key I'll get whatever you need from upstairs-"

"No," Silver says flatly.

"Did you say  _ no _ ?"

"Sorry, I meant, no and screw you. You can't just commandeer people whenever you decide." His usual flawless calm is gone. He's  _ angry _ . It's like being hit in the gut.

"I'm trying to help," Flint says, trying very hard not to clench his fists. "If you can't get up a flight of stairs-"

"I can and I have been. And it's three flights, thank you for asking."

" _ Three _ ," he repeats. "You've been going up  _ three _ flights. And doing coffee runs and moving seats and painting sets and God knows what else, and you didn't  _ tell _ anyone-"

"Yeah, and this is why!" Silver cuts in. "You have one off day and suddenly you're an emergency case. I am  _ fine _ . I have  _ been _ fine. For years, without you, or anyone else. You want to help," he says, "you can help by leaving me the fuck alone."

And, pointedly, he starts to haul himself up again, step by step. His gaze stays fixed on Flint, and it says: say one more word, I dare you.

Flint says nothing. He turns around and leaves Silver the fuck alone.

-

Sitting in the van, he stares into the middle distance for a minute or two. Then he pushes his hair back out of his eyes and drives home.

-

The next day is mostly ensemble work, which means Flint doesn’t have to be at the theatre until the afternoon. He goes in earlier than that anyway, mostly out of a lack of anything else to do, and lurks in the back row watching Anne run everyone through the blocking. It’s... complex. Watching it take shape, he can start to see the empty space in the center of it; the gap where, at some point, he’ll fit in; a void still somehow tangible. He remembers the Rangers’ Lear-without-Lear and for a brief unproud moment wonders if more plays shouldn’t just cut the main character out.

It’s the set that’s the tricky part today. Someone, probably Gates, has got there early and filled the basin in with sand, and it’s causing a whole new set of difficulties.

“Damn it,” Jack mutters, as he misses his footing again. “Anne, I’m sorry, but we  _ have _ to change this section-” They both mutter for a bit, then Anne goes to the edge of the set to consult with Max. Meanwhile, Idelle is attempting to get the sand out from her half-soles.

“This is going to drive us crazy,” she says to no one in particular. Jack makes a commiserative face.

“We could always do it barefoot,” says Vane, and everybody groans.

Anne comes back. “Charles, no,” she says. “Jack, try it this way-”

Eventually Max calls twenty and everyone dusts their feet off and disperses. Flint heads up to the front row.

Silver has been sitting there too, wearing a messy bun and a drawn-out expression and not saying much. He and Max both look up as Flint approaches.

"Can I talk to you?" Flint says.

Silver shoots Max a look, and she nods, and gets up. Even preoccupied as he is, Flint spares a thought to wonder if he should worry about that.

He takes a seat, leaving one empty between Silver and himself. Silver watches him but says nothing.

"Listen," Flint says eventually. "I want to apologize, and I'm not very good at it. Will you hear me out?"

Silver's expression is guarded. He nods. 

"I was wrong," says Flint. "Several times. I shouldn't have followed you in when you didn't ask and I shouldn't have made assumptions. I won't try to make any excuses for myself. I just- am sorry. I do want to help you," he adds, " _ not _ because I think you need it, and not if you don't want it. If there is anything I can do for you, tell me and I will do it. And- if you'd rather I just fucked off, I'll do that."

He waits. Silver watches him, and says nothing.

“Right,” says Flint. He gets up. “Off I fuck. Thank you for listening.”

“There is something,” says Silver, as he’s turning around to go.

He turns back.

“The elevator in my building’s broken.” Silver cracks a crooked half smile. There’s that gut-punch sensation again. “You know anybody with a place on the ground floor?”


End file.
